Love Show
by lovemaggie
Summary: The Final Battle is over and the Order won. The Death Eaters, including a wounded, regretful Snape, are paying the price for their actions. Meanwhile, Hermione Granger is all alone, hating her life. Can Severus and Hermione find solace in each other?
1. I Wish I Could Dream

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, etc or any of the song lyrics used in this story.

_Somebody's aching, keeping it all in.  
Somebody won't let go of his heart but the truth is,  
it's painless, letting your love show. _

Skye Edwards – Love Show

**Chapter One – I Wish I Could Dream**

_And just like ships we float through each other's lives  
Through the waters of beauty and grace  
We will one day dark at the same pace  
And give rest to our weary limbs  
There is a light placed up in the sky  
Like the stained glass time slows down  
I wish I could sleep  
I wish I could dream…_

Umbrellas – Ships

The bustle and hustle of St. Mungo's whirred about Severus Snape's tired brain. The hospital started its business for the day very early in the morning, and unfortunately for Snape, he was a light sleeper. Snape was awakened, groggily and angrily, each morning by the noise coming from the hallway.

He reached up to grope around for the light cord. _What a damn hastle_, he said to himself, like he did every morning as he woke in the dark. The mediwitches had confiscated all the wands of those in the dangerous ward, and had installed Muggle devices so the patients could get along without wands. The electric lights, complete with cords to pull to turn them on, were one example.

After a few more seconds feeling foolish as he waved his hand around in the area above his head, Snape found the light cord and pulled down sharply. A bright light illuminated the dark room, and Severus' roommate mumbled a bit before turning over to sleep on his stomach. The man could sleep through anything.

Severus' dreams were too haunted by nightmares to make him wishful for sleep, anyway. At least that's what he told himself.

A mediwitch poked her head in the doorway. "Oh, Mr Snape, you're up," she said, as she did every morning.

"Yes. I am. What a surprise," Snape replied dryly.

"I expect you'd like your tea and morning paper?"

"Glad to see you're understanding the routine," he said, rolling his eyes. She didn't appear to understand what he meant, however. He sighed. "Yes, I'd like the tea and paper."

"All right. I'll bring it in just a few moments with your morning dose." She shot him a bright smile before ducking her head away. Listening hard, he heard, over the hospital noise, her heels clicking down the hallway.

She was back in less than a minute, looking as eager as ever to serve him. "Here's the potion, and your tea, and your paper," she said, still smiling. She handed each to him in turn.

"Thank you," he murmured before downing the potion in one gulp. He resisted the urge to make a face at the taste.

The mediwitch got out a piece of parchment and a dictation quill. "Now, tell me, Mister Snape, how do your legs feel today?"

Snape sighed internally. He hated this part of the day. Hell, he hated most parts of every day after what had happened, but thinking about his legs made him relive the terrifying moment when he'd discovered he could no longer move. He could still vividly see the flash of light and feel the heart-wrenching pain that had seemed to last forever; what he remembered more was the moment when the absence of any feeling whatsoever had begun. The mediwitches said it was a temporary paralysis of the lower half of his body; Snape knew, in his heart, he would never recover.

He was supposed to be dead, anyway. Everyone wanted him dead.

"They don't _feel_," he snarled.

The mediwitch frowned and pursed her lips. "Patient displays anger, as usual," she told her quill, who scribbled her words down on the parchment. "However, he has regained no movement as yet. Will examine again tomorrow."

She stared at him for a long moment and he stared back at her. When he'd finally decided she wasn't going to speak, he reached for the _Prophet_, but she interrupted him.

"Mister Snape, why are you so angry about your legs?" she asked slowly, carefully placing her bright smile on her lips, as if to reassure him. "Your anger could be impairing the healing process, you know. I mean, you of all people _should _know that making a potion work involves doing a little more than throwing the ingredients together properly."

When Snape didn't deign to respond, she huffed, "Fine. I'll be back later with your next dose. See if I care if you heal, Snape."

When Snape's hospital roommate, Octavius Yaxley, awoke a few minutes later, he saw Snape sipping from a mug of hot tea as he held the morning _Prophet_ in one hand.

"You're up, Snape," he commented.

"I'm always up, Yaxley," Snape returned, his eyes never leaving the front page of the paper.

"True. And I see you're doing your usual activity: reading."

"I can't live my own life anymore, Yaxley; I might as well see what other people are doing with theirs," said Snape, bored with the conversation already. They had the same one every morning. In fact, Snape did the exact same things every morning, noon, and night—and nobody but him seemed to realize that was going on.

"Still, you could do something else once in a while. Variety is the spice of life."

"I can't walk, Yaxley. My life is spiceless, and I've had plenty of spice already, anyhow."

"Sure ya have." Snape didn't even have to look at Yaxley to know the other man was winking suggestively. _Disgusting_, Snape thought, returning all focus and interest to the newspaper.

The mediwitch came back at midmorning, late afternoon, early evening, and just before midnight. Each time she gave Snape and Yaxley doses of potion and asked them about their symptoms. Each time Snape growled, "My legs don't feel," and the mediwitch gave him a sad look which made Snape even angrier.

The magic-proof chain linking his ankle to the bedrail was another constant source of Snape's anger. It was such an unnecessary irritant. He scowled at it all day long, having nothing better to do once his paper was read.

_Such is the life of a criminal_, he mused quietly. _Better than Azkaban, anyway._

One morning, as Snape opened his eyes and his awareness of the world returned—he noticed something odd—

He was waking up on his own. He hadn't _been awakened_—no, his mind was, all by itself, shaking off the effects of a good night's sleep and becoming alert.

_A good night's sleep_. Snape was completely puzzled. He sat up in bed, stunned, and looked around him.

Yaxley was up, moving about the room quietly. The mediwitch was there too, seeming to help him pack his few belongings.

"Excuse me," Snape began, then cleared his throat. Both Yaxley and the mediwitch looked up.

"You're awake! Did you sleep well, Mister Snape?" asked the mediwitch.

"I did actually," he replied, able, for once, to keep any hint of sarcasm from his voice.

"Thought you might. The Wizengamot reversed its position on not giving Death Eaters dreamless sleep—you know how they wanted you all to suffer. But yesterday for some reason, they gave us a list of people who were allowed to take the potion, and your name was on that list."

"And you didn't tell me you were slipping me a potion?"

"No. You're usually so out of it by the midnight dose, anyway, I didn't think you'd listen if I tried to tell you. Though it'd be easier in the morning, after you'd had a good rest."

"I suppose you were right," Snape consented.

"Well, I'll go and get you the morning dose. Be back in a jiffy!" she said brightly, hurrying out of the room.

"Want to read the _Prophet_?" asked Yaxley from the corner of the tiny room. "I finished already. Been up for a few hours, just getting ready." He walked over towards Snape's bed and tossed the newspaper gently down on the other man's lap.

"Thanks," Snape said softly, picking up the paper. He scowled at it.

The front page presented a most startling headline: "WAR HERO GRANGER ATTEMPTS SUICIDE."

Snape's mouth dropped open and he couldn't help gasping quietly in shock. "Miss Granger, commit suicide? Never." He shook his head, frowning.

"Thought you might find that a bit interesting," commented his roommate. "You knew her, didn't you?"

"I did know her," Snape replied. "I thought I knew her very well, thought I had her pegged, and this is something I would never have expected."

"Ohho, knew her very well, did ya, Snape?" joked Yaxley.

"No, I don't mean like that," Severus snapped. The conversation stopped momentarily, then a thought suddenly occurred to Snape. "Your trial's today, isn't it? That's why you're packing?"

"Yeah," said Yaxley, shaking his head sadly. "And I'm not ready for it either. Wish I had gotten hit with something more terrible, like you, so I could stay in the hospital forever."

"I won't be here forever. Eventually they'll decide that my legs will never heal. I don't know why they've kept me here this long."

"Well, good luck to ya, then."

"Same to you," Snape said, the civility almost killing him. Octavius Yaxley was hardly worthy of the title Death Eater and so had always annoyed him. But these few hours were the man's last amongst real people, and Snape didn't want to make him suffer—too much.

"They're going to get me on that slaying of the Muggle couple. You know the one?"

Snape didn't recall—how could he possibly remember ever Muggle killing Voldemort had ordered?—but nodded anyway. "And how will they get you? Too many witnesses to your cruelty? Too many bumbling clues left to give away your identity?" Snape prodded. Yaxley was notorious for completely lacking any Death Eater subtlety. The Ministry would probably be easily able to convict him of every single crime he had ever committed.

"No, just one witness to the whole shebang—Hermione Granger. I made her watch me kill her parents, that time the Dark Lord had her in captivity."

"Oh." Now Severus remembered. "Gods, no wonder she tried to kill herself."

The other man laughed loudly, showing his teeth. "You know, they say she went absolutely crazy after her friend Weasley got executed and Potter died slaying the Dark Lord. She was all alone in the world. Wouldn't stop screaming for three days straight. They tried to sedate her, but she just woke up. She was a brilliant, beautiful mess."

And now, thought Severus, just two weeks after the Final Battle, she's trying to kill herself. Must be crazy—or just feeling lonely. And how exactly had he missed this news, all those days reading the papers?

"How did you find out about all this?"

"It's all everyone is talking about, of course. They couldn't put it in the _Prophet _because they don't want to offend her, you know. She's the only hero they've got left."

"That's interesting," Snape said shortly when he realized Yaxley was waiting for a response.

"Sure is. Saddest thing is that it will take only the witness of a crazy-assed war hero to convict or pardon you. Whatever she says goes."

"Her testimony would pardon someone?"

"Oh, yeah," he said, "and convict 'em. Sure wish she'd been able to kill herself, personally. I might have had a chance to get off then."

Snape snorted rather loudly. Yaxley looked indignant. "Oh please, man, you were so sloppy they'll convict you of crimes you didn't even commit. Granger will only seal the envelope more permanently."

"Well it's not like you have a snowball's chance in hell of getting off either," said Yaxley agitatedly. "You killed Dumbledore. Everyone hates you."

"I know," said Snape, frowning. He no longer wanted to talk to Yaxley. Flipping up his newspaper to act as a wall, he began reading the article about Granger.

"_WAR HERO GRANGER ATTEMPTS SUICIDE_

_Hermione Granger, clever Gryffindor behind the plan to bring down Lord Voldemort and sole survivor among the people who helped to execute her plan, attempted to kill herself last night. At around ten o'clock in the evening she entered her flat, intending never to exit again. She turned on the gas of her stove without lighting it, but before any real damage could be done, an unidentified neighbor stopped by to give her a package. Upon realizing that Miss Granger was home but not answering the door, the neighbor called the proper authorities who were able to break into Granger's flat and save her life._

'_Miss Granger was devastated in the aftermath of the Final Battle. Her parents were brutally murdered in front of her eyes and all her friends perished. She is understandably lonely and probably experiencing an immense amount of survivor's guilt,' says a prominent healer at St. Mungo's, Frederick Masterson . 'Her mind is out of control.'_

_The public sees one side of Miss Granger: war hero. She is world-renowned as brilliant and brave and she has received an outpouring of love from the wizarding community. This love is seemingly not enough. 'Her close companions are gone from this earth forever. Caring from strangers won't fix much,' says Masterson_._"_

Snape paused reading to snort in disgust. "What an utter idiot this man is," he said in Yaxley's generation direction. The other man ignored him. Snape was about to put the paper aside, when a line at the end of the article caught his eye.

"_She will spend the next few weeks in St. Mungo's Hospital, recovering. Healer Masterson recommends a round of Shock Spells, but as yet there is no information on Miss Granger's treatment. We do know she will be allowed out several times a week to testify at the ongoing Death Eater Trials." _

"She's staying here?" he mused, voice quiet. "Impossible."

"Mr Snape, I have your morning dose," came the voice of the mediwitch, interrupting his thoughts.

Severus reached for the potion. As he did so he asked, "Hermione Granger is staying at St. Mungo's?"

"Yes, she is," acknowledged the mediwitch. "She's on this floor, actually. Too bad you can't walk or you might be able to go see her."

Severus sloshed the potion around in its cup before drinking it quickly. As usual, he worked to push down a shudder of revulsion at the taste. "Ah, I doubt she'd want to see me," he replied. "I just wanted to know if she was really here."

"Well, it's true. Once in a while the _Prophet_'s got to get it right, I s'pose."

Snape didn't respond; he was thinking. The woman sighed and took his cup from his hand, then left him alone, heading over to the other side of the small room to see how Yaxley was doing.

_Would she want to see me?_ he pondered. _She might, _he answered himself. _And her testimony could get me off—could I somehow convince her I'm innocent?_ _Her mind is fragile…_


	2. A Familiar Voice

**Chapter Two – A Familiar Voice**

_A familiar sound, a familiar voice  
Makes it so hard to make a choice  
I don't know if I should stay away_.  
Alexz Johnson – I Don't Know If I Should Stay

Hermione's hospital room at St. Mungo's had a window seat with a gorgeous view of the world outside. Of course, Hermione knew the view was magically-made and supremely unrealistic for this time of year, but immediately upon seeing it she had decided not to care.

Not caring, releasing control, was easier for her these days. There wasn't much to care about, anyway.

She sat quite still on the window seat, hugging her knees to her chest and resting her chin upon them. She stared outside, wishing she were out there with her friends and family, not locked up in the hospital, alone.

It wasn't as if she'd actually wanted to end her life. No. That wasn't the case at all. She wanted to live—but what she had was _not_ a life in even the briefest definition of the word.

None of the well-intentioned healers and mediwitches around her seemed to understand that.

As she sat on the window seat, her thoughts turned to the trials today. Every day she attended the so-called Death Eater Trials before the Wizengamot; her testimonies were vitally important, or so she was told. Most of the trials ran together in her mind, but today, one trial in particular stood out: that of Octavius Yaxley.

Octavius Yaxley was a desperate man—a true Death Eater, yes, but an awful one. He almost, thought Hermione, besmirched the Death Eater name by being so… un-calculating and un-subtle. Essentially, he was a klutzy murderer, and that was a terrible thing to be. He went into his trial with fear in his eyes, knowing there was no chance he was going to escape his fate.

In truth, her testimony wasn't really needed to convict Yaxley; the Ministry had evidence against him going back years and years, some from crimes he hadn't even committed as a Death Eater. But Hermione had wanted to testify against the man, and so she was welcomed to the stand, as always.

"This man killed my parents," she'd begun. "He made me watch while he killed my parents. He let me sit helpless while he tortured them and killed them." She'd then spoken for a few minutes about the terror she'd felt, the nightmares she still had, and the sad hole in her heart which used to be filled up by the love of her parents.

"This Death Eater is responsible for the person I am today," she'd finished. The crowd had gasped at her frank admission.

"He made you a war hero?" one of the Wizengamot members had asked, puzzled.

"Yes, that's part of it," she'd replied. "His action motivated me with more force to put an end to Voldemort's reign."

"What's the other part of it, then?" the member had asked.

"Memories of what he did to me, to my parents…" She paused, and the court had waited nervously. "I attempted suicide because of him."

That statement alone opened a cell in Azkaban for Yaxley. And Hermione was proud of it, in a way. She also felt fairly terrible; she had lied. She hadn't needed to lie to convict this man, but she'd done it. And she didn't know why. She'd stuck to the truth in other cases, cases with less evidence where her lie would have been immensely helpful.

It was true that Yaxley had affected her, yes. But her experiences at his hands hadn't made her try to kill herself. She didn't know what had made her do that.

"What am I turning into?" she wondered aloud. Ten healers immediately rushed into the room at the sound of her voice. She'd been silent for the past few hours, and their "concern" for her was evident.

"What was that?"

"Do you need something? Someone?"

"Can I bring you anything?"

"How are you feeling?"

Hermione tuned out their anxious voices and returned to her internal reflections, feeling melancholy. _I don't want to be taken care of by_ you_ idiots_, she said to herself.

The view from her window turned slowly darker as the hours went past. Trees, a meandering river, small animals playing, it all faded to black. When at last she was staring out into pitch dark space—the dead of night in whatever time the made-up scene she viewed ran on—she began slowly to stand up. She lifted her head from where it rested on her knees, then stretched out her legs, first the right, then the left. Finally, she placed her feet softly on the tile floor and brought herself into standing position.

She had kept her mind carefully blank for most of the day spent watching out the window. Now, she let thoughts float in, one by one.

The first thought that occurred to her was that she wished someone were there to hold her, to support her. She was so lonely.

But the second thought was more important. She realised, almost instinctively, that what she wanted to do was live--_really_ live, not just exist in this mixed-up, pretend life with no friends, no family, no purpose. She did not want to spend her days staring at artificial scenery.

The shock of the thought made her promptly sit down again. She rested her head in her hand and stared down at her feet, thinking.

"I want to live?" she said out loud, quietly so the medical "professionals" wouldn't hear her words. "I want to live," she repeated, with more conviction.

"How nice for you," said a drawling sort of voice from the doorway. She recognised it even before she looked up and made eye contact with the dark man who had killed Albus Dumbledore. He was seated in a Muggle contraption she knew as a wheelchair, and he looked slightly uncomfortable.

"They let you out?" she asked, before it occurred to her that she might have been a little more tactful. "Oops, sorry. I meant to say… Well, no. That's what I meant."

Snape laughed softly, his mouth curling up. Using his hands on the large wheels, he rolled himself closer to her. "Mind if I come in?"

"It's fine," she said in response and he wheeled so he was sitting a few feet directly in front of where she sat on the window seat.

"They do indeed let me out, or at least they did this once," he told her. "It seems the Wizengamot has slackened some of the rules, in my case."

"Interesting. And you don't know why?" she asked, seemingly innocently.

"No, I'm fairly sure you had something to do with it," he said, smirking slightly. "I hear the one person who has any pull with those people these days is you."

"That would be correct. Even in my 'fragile mental state' I'm still the only hero they've got."

"Should I assume your mental state caused your interference on my behalf? I'm sure there's no other reason anyone would care enough to believe me innocent."

"I'm not so sure you're innocent, but I'm very sure you won't get a fair trial. I just figured I wouldn't be around for your trial, wouldn't be able to vouch for you, get you a lesser sentence. So maybe I could make your time up until your trial, and consequent life in Azkaban, a little… nicer."

"Why would you even consider vouching for me?" he asked. This was turning out to be easier than he'd hoped. She already half-believed him to be innocent.

Hermione took a deep breath. "You'll have to follow my logic a little bit here." She paused, gathering her words, then continued, "Harry told me, before he died, to make sure things went well for you."

Snape's eyes narrowed. This did not sound like the Harry Potter he had known.

"He was there the night you killed Professor Dumbledore, you know, and he said… He said he'd reexamined the events and thought that you might have just been protecting Draco. Harry told me that you can't have been such a bad person if you would potentially sacrifice your freedom just to save a child from becoming a murderer. In the end, Harry decided to believe Dumbledore and he chose to think you weren't such a bad guy. Or so he said.

"Now, I don't know if you're bad or good or something else entirely, and before I was about to kill myself, I couldn't have cared less. But I loved Harry, he was my best friend, and I would've have done anything for him while he lived. I guess it should be the same now, even though he's not alive."

"So you helped me for Harry?" Snape was utterly confused.

"Yes," Hermione said.

"I don't believe you," he said. "I think this is all a story."

Immediately, Hermione protested, "I closed my mind to you! I'm trained!"

Snape shook his head. "I did not use Legillimency on you," he said flatly. "In fact, I did not need to to see you were telling a story."

"A story? Why would you think that?"

Snape paused, his dark eyebrows furrowed. "I…stood for everything Potter considered evil," he said.

Hermione could tell instinctively he was being honest, and it scared her. Snape as anything but sarcastic scared her.

"I can imagine him trying to pardon me _only_ under extreme duress," Snape told her, a touch of sarcasm in his voice. She relaxed a little.

"People change when they know their lives are ending," she countered.

"Not this much."

"You don't know that," she said, too quickly.

Snape laughed again. "Miss Granger, how many people do you think I've seen die?"

"I'm sure you've seen a fair few," Hermione replied, realising then her mistake in deceiving to him. She should never have tried; she should have told the truth. How had she become such a liar?

"Wouldn't you imagine that I know how people's minds change a little more than you know?" He didn't wait for her response. "But, the Wizengamot wouldn't know any more than you do about death, I wager."

"Fine," she said quickly and in a bare whisper. "Please don't talk about it so loudly. Those healers and mediwitches are listening to everything I say."

He dropped his voice very low. "I know the feeling. Just tell me why you made up a story to tell the Wizengamot."

"I heard a rumor…" she began, but broke off as a mediwitch came into the room.

"Hermione, deary, would you like something to drink?"

"No, thank you. I'm fine," Hermione replied politely.

"How about something to eat, then?" pushed the mediwitch.

"I'm fine," Hermione said, a note of irritation creeping into her voice. "I'll let you all know if I need anything. There's no reason to hover."

The mediwitch pursed her lips, then leaned in closer to whisper in Hermione's ear. "You are aware you're having a quiet conversation with a _murderer_, aren't you?"

"I'm very much aware," Hermione said loudly.

"You know, we're concerned about your mental state and this hints that—"

"I don't honestly care about what my talking to Snape hints at. Go away." She scowled at the woman, who scurried off, most likely to report her findings: Hermione was insane.

Hermione went on in a whisper, "I heard a rumor—more a speculation—that if you truly were still on Dumbledore's side and we were all wrong about you, you would have told Dumbledore everything about Voldemort's plan for Draco to kill him. That kind of thinking… well, it appealed to my logical side. It made sense. I mean, if Dumbledore had known what was to come and if he had _told_ you to kill him instead of letting Draco do it…You were just carrying out his wishes," she said. Then she looked at him, right in the eyes, and said quickly and in her normal speaking voice, "I don't know if that's true or not, Snape, and I don't want to know. Don't tell me."

Snape chose to say nothing at that moment, so Hermione continued quietly, "I'm not saying you're innocent, of course. You still killed him. But if he asked you to do it… well, that's different than straight up murder."

"I agree," Snape said.

"Agree with what?"

"With your idea that it's not murder." He paused. "And, Hermione, I didn't murder Albus."

"For some reason, I believe you," she muttered to herself.

"What was that?"

"Just that I believe you," she told him, "but I'm not sure why. I'm normally not one to jump on a bandwagon without all the facts."

"I see. I could tell you all the facts," he proposed.

"No, thanks. You could lie to me and I would never know it, so hearing the 'truth' from you could be just like not hearing it, really."

"You are entirely too rational," commented Snape, looking at her strangely.

"Hermione 'Rational' Granger, that's me."

"Well, Miss Rational," he drawled, "I have a proposition for you."

"Oh?"

"Help me."

"Help you… do what?" Hermione replied, knowing his answer before he began to speak.

"Help me stay clear of Azkaban. Testify for me."

She looked down at her hands, frowning and pursing her lips. Slowly she lifted her head up and tilted it to the side, looking Snape in the eyes. "Fine, but you'll have to do something for me."

"What?"

"I'm not telling you yet."

"Okay," he said. "I'll await your mystery request and in the meantime, you'll save my life."

"Sounds like a plan, Snape," she replied, grinning slightly.

"Now, shall I assume you rationalized this all out, in your head, in those five seconds you paused?" Snape asked.

"No. You should assume that I've been rationalizing it out for the past five years," Hermione shot back, not thinking.

"Five years? Merlin! What, since I killed Dumbledore?"

"Yes…" she said slowly. Oops. She'd just given away her ace; now he knew too much. She wasn't sure why she thought she had to keep things from him, maybe some part of her knew he wasn't entirely trustworthy, but she felt it was the thing to do. Oh well, too late now. "It was hard for me to believe that Dumbledore would turn out to be a fool after all, in trusting you. I told myself that if I ever found reason to believe you hadn't just murdered a too-trusting old man, I would help you clear your name, if I could."

"Interesting." Snape grinned inwardly, careful to let none of his emotions show on his face. She was already in the palm of his hand… and he hadn't had to do any work.

"I think I'd like to go to sleep now, Snape, if you don't mind," Hermione said, eyeing the healers and mediwitches who still paced around the hallway outside her room, pretending they weren't trying to listen. "My keepers are getting restless."

"I'll go, then." He began wheeling himself backwards to turn around.

"Come back tomorrow, if you want." Snape nodded in response before spinning around in a fluid motion and starting to roll forward, towards the door. Hermione watched him go, not sure what she felt. The healers and mediwitches breathed a collective sigh of relief as soon as he was far enough down the hall that they could no longer hear the wheels of his chair roll.

What was it that she had with Snape now? An alliance of sorts?

It didn't truly matter, she knew. If she were being honest with herself, she would admit that she was just happy to have something to do with her life. Helping Snape--someone most people believed was a murderer--gave her back some of the adventure she'd grown accustomed to waking up to every day. From the moment her sixth year at Hogwarts had come to a close, Hermione and her friends had been working with the Order. Each moment had brought a new adventure to undertake, and all of it was for the very best cause imaginable: defeating Voldemort. But now...

Hermione had to be content with helping Snape. No more did she need to fathom intense plans to bring down the Dark Lord. No more did she need to protect her back at every turn. No more did she need to question everything she said to people, being wary of espionage. No. Now, she had to invent mysteries and intrigue and danger to take the place of what had haunted her heart for so many years.


	3. Let Me In

**Chapter Three – Let Me In**

_I came across a fallen tree  
I felt the branches. Are they looking at me?  
Is this the place we used to love?  
Is this the place I've been dreaming of?  
Oh simple thing, where have you gone?  
I'm getting old and I need something to rely on  
So tell me when you're gonna let me in  
I'm getting tired and I need somewhere to begin  
So if you have a minute, why don't we go talk about it  
Somewhere only we know._  
Keane – Somewhere only We Know

"…_if I ever found reason to believe you hadn't just murdered a too-trusting old man, I would help you clear your name, if I could…"_

Miss Granger's words echoed around in Snape's head long after he returned to his hospital room. It was lonely and quiet without his roommate, and Snape felt himself missing the other man a tiny bit. At least his chatter would have distracted Snape from his thoughts.

"What on earth did she mean? What reason did she find?" he mused aloud, but quietly, hoping not to attract the attention of anyone outside in the hall.

He'd covered his tracks well, he'd thought, in case the Dark Lord won. There should be no evidence, no way for anyone to find out any of the things he'd done. He wasn't quite sure why he still felt he had to hide it, but for some reason, he felt it was the thing to do.

"…_if I ever found reason…"_

She was willing to help him; that had to mean she had found a reason.

Interrupting his thoughts, the familiar mediwitch entered his room with his nightly dose, a little sleep potion added to it. As he drank, another darker thought occurred to him: Hermione would somehow have to convince the Wizengamot to lessen the restrictions placed on him for the murder of Dumbledore. She'd said she would do it, yes, but how could she? The Chief Warlock had told him at his first court appearance that "his heart was already in hell" and he didn't deserve to ever see the light of day again. As soon as his legs healed, he would be put in Azkaban so he could never use them again.

Snape had laughed in the woman's face. Obviously, she hated him—or hated the fact that Dumbledore was dead, one or the other. He'd known then as he knew now that he would never walk again, anyway, in Azkaban or out. Still, it would take a powerful piece of evidence to convince the court that his heart wasn't as hardened as they'd thought, no matter how influential Miss Granger had become.

And she had to know that, she had to. So did she have that evidence? _If I were the type of man to fret and bite my nails, I'd be doing it right now. Thank Merlin that I'm not_, he thought. He had a mental picture of a young Remus Lupin—rest his soul—biting his nails while taking an exam. Snape grinned despite himself, but his thoughts quickly turned reflective again.

He thought he'd covered up so well, but she must know. _She must know it was me_, he thought. _I'm not as good as I used to be_.

He was drifting slowly off to sleep, part of him feeling content because of the potion, but the other part was still puzzling over what Miss Granger knew or didn't…

When he woke the next morning, it was because he had a visitor.

"Miss Granger?" he asked, frowning.

"Good morning," she said sweetly. "Time to wake up."

"I'm up," he replied, sitting up in bed as he spoke. He rubbed his eyes and reached a hand up to turn on the light switch. "How early is it?"

"Not very, I don't think. I'm not sure; I don't keep much track of time lately. Tell me: how do your legs feel today?" Hermione asked.

Snape narrowed his eyes. "The mediwitch put you up to this, did she?"

"Well, yes. But I really do want to know." In a whisper, she continued, "And… do you think you'll ever walk again? Are you as optimistic as all the healers?"

"No," he said flatly. "I'll never walk. This," he said, gesturing to himself with both hands, "will be the remainder of my existence."

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said, not sounding sorry at all. "You do know about the power of positive thinking…"

"I don't care about the power of positive thinking. I've never had a positive thought in my life and I won't start now."

"All right," Hermione said agreeably. "Suit yourself. Anyway. Want to talk?"

"You really don't have any friends left, do you?" He smirked.

Snape watched Hermione visibly decide to ignore his rudeness. She raised an eyebrow and smiled slightly. "No, I don't," she replied. "But at least you're someone I've met once or twice before in my life. And you're someone who's not quite impressed with all my 'accomplishments.' I just might be able to have a decent conversation with you."

"Oh, I'm impressed. Just not for the same reasons other people are."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"That was kind of a hint for you to tell me what your reasons are…" Hermione said, rolling her eyes.

"I'm aware," he said, his mouth giving nothing away, but his eyes smiling. Hermione laughed. "I taught you everything you know about Potions… unless Slughorn managed to impart any of his knowledge to you. What I'm impressed with is my own teaching abilities."

She laughed again, and Snape thought that he might enjoy spending time with her if he could make her laugh like that again. It was a cheery sort of sound that he didn't get much of in the hospital-slash-prison he lived in.

"He did teach me a little," Hermione said, "but the potions concepts I actually used were all from you."

"Interesting. Tell me… All I know about the defeat of the Dark Lord is that it was planned by you and done using a potion. Give me details."

"Oh… it's so hard to explain." She made an excuse. It was always difficult to explain the plan, of course, but mostly she didn't want to feel like she was bragging. "Let's talk about something else."

"As you wish… but I'll bring this up again later, perhaps at a more inopportune moment." He really did want to know how she'd done it, how she'd brought down Voldemort.

"Is that supposed to be a threat?" she asked, grinning. "I think you're losing your touch."

Snape frowned, however. "I think I am. I've noticed myself being _softer_ lately. I blame the paralysis."

Hermione laughed again, loudly, and Snape felt pleased. He allowed himself a small smile.

"I'll tell you, just for being the first person to make me laugh in… probably years," she commented after she'd caught her breath

"Maybe you should take a seat," he suggested, smiling. He always got his way, somehow. "I think this is going to be a long conversation."

"I think so too," she said, raising both her eyebrows high. "Mind if I sit on your bed?"

"Go ahead." She took a seat, and made herself comfortable.

"Where to begin…" She thought for a moment, then said, "We… became aware--_as I'm sure you'll know_--that Voldemort was vulnerable only when he allowed himself to trust someone—and he only trusted others when he was beyond desperate. Obviously, the Order decided we needed to make him desperate, and thus vulnerable, so he would confide in one of our… informants, and we might learn some information.

"I set about researching ways to drive someone to desperation—ways to make someone so upset and so helpless that they would do things they'd sworn not to, things they would hate themselves for later. For some reason, I was drawn to the idea of using a potion. I reviewed everything I'd learned at Hogwarts, and I remembered that on the first day of Potions class, you mentioned Aconite."

"Aha," Snape said softly. "Researched it did you?"

"I did," she said, a slight smile of pride on her face. "Aconite is a poison, I'm sure you know. I learned that in ancient times, during war, enemies would poison each others' water supplies with Aconite. It seemed brilliant to me to bring Voldemort down without even using magic, but a plant. I devised a potion that would look innocent but have components which would all evaporate when heated. The liquid would become a gas. I brewed the potion in a very large quantity, and added some juice from crushed aconite to it. I put the potion in two big glass containers, heated them, and waited until it all evaporated inside the containers.

"Our informant had told us that Voldemort made his Death Eaters live in one of two locations—two so they couldn't both be attacked at once, I presume—both hidden, of course, and each in remote locations. He also told us the locations, leading us to believe he was the Secret Keeper and in Voldemort's inner circle, but that's beside the point. We cleared the surrounding areas of Muggles and wizards alike, then a team of Aurors and Order members—volunteers, of course, because it was dangerous—carried the containers to the locations and left them. Then, wearing Muggle gas masks by my suggestion, they flew up into the air and exploded the containers from a distance, releasing the gas.

"Miraculously, it worked," Hermione said, and Snape chuckled.

"Of course it worked. You were taught by the best."

She rolled her eyes at him. "We still had to bet on the Death Eaters not finding out. We didn't know if we could really trust our informant until after it worked."

Snape said nothing; Hermione hadn't expected him to. Then, wanting to get the whole story out before she lost her nerve, she continued. She'd only told parts of it, and only to reporters—it was nicer talking to someone she knew, yes, but not that nice; she still hated talking about it all.

"His Death Eaters were dropping like flies, and Voldemort was nervous and angry. The desperation—and vulnerability—came when he noticed, according to the informant, that if all his supporters were mysteriously murdered, he would be alone. He feared, rather irrationally, that we would be able to kill everyone. Of course we wouldn't, because that would leave our informant unprotected as the only Death Eater left alive. But irrational fear led to desperation, and he turned to our informant.

"When we finally got our information, it turned out to be more explosive than we had even hoped was a possibility. We were able to learn the location of _all_ the remaining Horcruxes _and_ how to get past the traps that were set. Pairs of Order members went out and destroyed them, and because of what we knew, only Remus Lupin was killed."

She stopped speaking for a moment and looked down, making an odd sort of face; Snape understood she was trying to move past her grief to continue talking. In a rare moment of sympathy, he reached a hand out and placed it on her shoulder, gripping softly. She looked up, a confused look in her eyes, but then smiled.

"He was killed when he made a foolish mistake," she said, in a voice barely above a whisper. Snape removed his hand. "And then we were all set to confront Voldemort for the final time and have a chance at success. We caught up to him at Godric's Hollow. Our informant told us that Voldemort was planning a trip to personally check on the welfare of all his Horcruxes. He was taking only one person with him. It seemed perfect. The Order members hid out there, our location protected by the Fidelius Charm, and waited for Voldemort to check on the Horcrux that had been there. When he came, with only Wormtail in tow, we were ready."

"And then?"

"You know, of course. You were there for the battle."

"I want to hear your interpretation."

She took a deep breath, and looked at him. Snape nodded in response, and tried to put what he hoped was a reassuring look on his face. She began, "You know, of course, that it wasn't I who killed Voldemort, despite what some rumors have to say. No, that was Harry, and he died for his all-important role." Hermione quieted, and looked down at her hands, willing herself not to cry. "And then… that was what happened. We attacked; Voldemort summoned his Death Eaters. The battle commenced, and eventually Harry was able to kill Voldemort. Then… Lucius Malfoy threw one last, wild Killing Curse over his shoulder before he was killed by a still-unknown man… And Malfoy's Curse hit Harry. I could do nothing but stand by and watch."

Both Severus and Hermione were silent for several minutes, each thinking their own thoughts.

"I want to talk about something else now," Hermione said in a normal voice. She had recovered from telling her story. Snape was still reflecting on what he'd heard, but he replied, "What would that be?"

She bit her lip for a moment, still wondering if she should dare bring it up here, now. Then she threw caution to the wind—after all, she had decided she wanted to _live_ again—and leaned in toward him, dropping her voice as she spoke. "The death eater letters."

"I see," he replied distractedly. _She had found a reason—not only that but she'd found_ the_ reason! What he worked so hard to hide…_

"Wondering how I knew it was you?" Hermione asked, interrupting his thoughts.

"Yes," he said, quite honestly. "I thought I covered up well."

"You hid it from Death Eaters and Voldemort well, sure, but you had to or your life would have been over. It was relatively easy for me to figure out, though."

"How did you do it? And how can you be sure others didn't find out?"

"Because, Snape, I didn't know it was you for sure until you just confirmed it," she said quietly. "But I guessed because… part of me wanted to believe you weren't such a bad guy. I thought that you might be the only person with inside information who would send it to the Order… I hoped you were the only person. I hoped so much that I managed to convince the Wizengamot my suspicions about you were facts."

"But in the first letter—the first letter!—I wrote, convincingly I thought, about how the person sending the letters had to be from outside the Dark Lord's circle," Snape protested.

"It was convincing at first," Hermione said slowly, "but there were some holes. I ended up reasoning through and figuring out that it _had_ to be someone in Voldemort's circle—exactly because you worked so hard to prove it wasn't."

"My downfall—trying too hard."

"Tell me, just once, that I'm right. Tell me that you wrote them. I know it, but I want to hear you say it," she said, trying not to beg.

"You're right," he said. "I wrote them."

The so called "death eater letters" were an account by an anonymous writer of all the plans of Voldemort and his Death Eaters. It was true--Snape had sent them to the Order, to Hermione specifically, knowing that she was the brains behind the operation with Dumbledore gone. For some reason, none of the senior Order members had been able to get their acts together fast enough--Hermione had been ready and willing; she had essentially taken over.

Snape sent one or two letters a week for the duration of the war. He used a different owl each time. Some letters were lists of places that would be attacked soon. Some were lists of names on Voldemort's "hit list". Some were simply friendly letters giving advice or commendations. Hermione very much liked the person writing the mysterious letters; she found his style of writing captivating and his willingness to sacrifice himself very compelling. She was sure it was a "he" by magical handwriting analysis, but she knew nothing else about his identity. She resolved to find out; she wanted to thank him.

The person had hidden his identity very thoroughly, however, and apparently didn't want to make himself known. After the war was over, it details about the Order's role in the war had come out, and it was announced that an anonymous source had been providing the Order, and whoever else Hermione decided to share the contents of each letter with, with inside information on Voldemort. The _Prophet_ put out a request on its front page for the writer of the letters to come forward and be commended… No one did so.

It looked as if the writer had worked more than hard to make sure no one would ever find out his name--the name of the man helping the Order so effectively from behind enemy lines. This made Hermione suspicious; why would someone go to such great lengths to hide themselves... if he weren't a Death Eater, threatened with torture and death if he divulged any secrets? And who would be capable of escaping and evading Voldemort's inquiries about the writer of the death eater letters?

Severus Snape.

From almost the first or second letter, Hermione had seized upon this idea and embraced it with hope. Perhaps Professor Snape wasn't quite the bad guy everyone believed him to be.

Hermione's job now was to prove to the Wizengamot and the wizarding public that Severus Snape had written the letters and was, in fact, the hero they'd been searching for.

**A/N:** Any comments you have about how realistic this chapter was would be great, especially about the potion, the final battle, death eater lettesr, etc. Was it at least semi-realistic, or was it completely off the mark? Anything you have to say will be appreciated :) --Maggie


	4. Damaged People

**Chapter Four – Damaged People**

_We're damaged people  
Praying for something  
That doesn't come from somewhere deep inside us  
Depraved souls  
Trusting in the one thing  
The one thing that this life has not denied us._  
Damaged People – Depeche Mode

After Snape admitted to writing the death eater letters, he had become extremely silent, trapped in his own mind. Hermione had sat patiently with him for another hour, asking questions and talking, mostly to herself as he paid no attention. Rather than continue fruitlessly questioning him, Hermione had decided to return to her room and let him be pensieve on his own.

For her part, she went straight to bed and slept straight through till morning, feeling that certain sense of satisfaction that comes from being proven right.

The next morning she woke up early, rubbed her eyes, and immediately jumped out of bed.

"I'm nearly as eager to get started on my day as I was… before," she mused silently. Dressing, she thought about what she had discovered yesterday and became determined to see Snape first thing, after breakfast of course. He couldn't avoid talking forever, could he?

When she got down to his room, she found a mediwitch standing outside his door.

"Good morning," Hermione said brightly. "Excuse me."

"Oh, Miss Granger. Snape thought you would be here this early, but I really didn't expect… No matter." The witch looked flustered. "I'm sorry to tell you that he doesn't want any… company today."

"Were those his exact words?"

"Well, no. But trust me, you don't want to hear his version. I don't think he's in a very good place right now. I'm not sure why."

"I see. You know, I'm not sure why either. What happened yesterday shouldn't be effecting him this badly. I mean, it's not that big a deal anymore," Hermione said, more to herself than the woman standing next to her.

"What exactly happened yesterday?" asked the mediwitch, curious.

"We were talking about… the past."

"Well, Snape has some very prevalent mental scars… Thinking of the past probably resurfaces a lot of painful memories for him, ones he'd rather forget."

"Our memories make us who we are. It's not prudent to forget."

"Mhmm," said the mediwitch noncommittally.

"I mean, in my opinion," Hermione added quickly. "Anyway, I'll just be going." The witch nodded and Hermione turned around and feeling dejected, headed back to her hospital room.

Snape was being entirely too unreasonable, she decided as she sank down on her bed. And she literally _needed_ to talk to someone. How many months had gone by without her making the slightest inclination toward human contact?

Too many to count.

But now she wanted to get her feelings out, somehow, to someone. And the only person she felt comfortable enough to talk to in this hospital was, weirdly enough, Severus Snape. Hermione normally found ridiculous those people who wasted time pondering questions like, "If you had asked me ten years ago if I'd be doing this…" She lived in the present. But these circumstances were so different from anything she'd ever experienced—and Hermione had experienced a lot, much to her regret.

And she found herself wondering, though thinking herself half-silly, if she could ever have guessed that within a few years, her best friend in the world would be the most hated professor in the history of Hogwarts—and the most hated man in the wizarding world.

If he wouldn't talk to her—and he wouldn't let her talk at him—what was she supposed to do? She'd put her faith in the hands of Snape, and she wasn't going to be proven wrong about him.

She rang a bell to call a mediwitch in to her room. Seven of them came, hurrying as fast as their legs could take them.

"Oh, um, I'm sorry. This won't really take all of you, sorry. I was just wondering if I could get some paper? And a quill and ink?

"Of course," three of them replied at once. The others nodded.

"Thanks. And sorry to trouble you."

"No trouble at all," they said.

A few minutes later, all seven came back, each carrying an armful of paper, three quills, and two ink pots.

"Well, thank you. I'll be able to write forever," she said, smiling.

She sat down at the window seat, a book on her lap to write on, and began a letter…

* * *

"Miss Granger—" said the mediwitch outside Snape's door. She'd just come out after giving him a dose of medicine. 

"No, don't worry. I'm not here to bother Snape," Hermione said quickly. "I was just wondering if I could trouble you to deliver this to him?"

"You wrote him a letter?"

"Yeah."

"I'll give it to him… I can't promise he'll read it though."

"That's all right. I mostly just wanted to write it."

* * *

_Dear Snape,_

_I think I'm going to have to call you Severus from now on. It's too hard to be on a last-name basis with someone you're going to share life details with, if that makes sense. And you can call me Hermione, too._

_Now, let me just get this straight. All I want is to talk to someone. You're the only someone I've got left. Want to hear why? I'll tell you. In this letter, because you obviously can't bear to see me in person. So you had better read it. _

_But you know what else? You don't want to see me? Fine. You don't want to talk to me? Fine. You don't want to read this letter? Fine. You don't want to write back to me? That's fine. Just fine. Writing is cathartic enough for me. _

_But I hope you'll read, Severus._

_Stop scowling, I know you're scowling. I'm not in the room, so your scowl is not scaring me off. In fact, all it's doing is making your face more wrinkly. If that's what you want, by all means, continue scowling, but I bet it's not what you want._

Snape looked up from the letter, confused. He was scowling, dammit. Did she really know him this well? Must have been too many years of his classes.

_I don't think it's healthy for you to be shutting yourself off, you know. And I've been there, I have. You know exactly what road I was led down by letting myself feel lonely and remorseful, Severus._ _So some bad things happened in your past; so you're mad at me for finding out what you wanted to hide; so you have a bad temper and a melancholy personality. I don't care. Bad things have happened to me, too. And I want to talk to someone, to get it all out in the open. Maybe you'll even understand better than most because you feel sad about the past, too. _

_I watched my parents killed before my eyes. I watched Ron being executed by Death Eaters, wearing their terrible masks. I watched Harry fall while I stood motionless and cried, feeling helpless and not knowing what else to do. I listened to reports at meetings of Order members being struck down left and right with us unable to stop it from happening. I witnessed mass killings and other terrors while I was held in captivity. I read the _Prophet_ and learned of the deaths of so many innocents, all while we were trying to make it end—and failing miserably. _

_But none of that was my fault. I know it now, but I still wallowed in it all. I knew, deep down somewhere I could not reach, that Voldemort was doing it all, that all my current pain led back to him. That didn't mean I could stop my spiral; I blamed myself for everything I'd been handed._

_The one thing I had left was my family—my other family: the Weasleys. Molly would have held me in her arms until my tears had run dry, if I hadn't gotten her killed._

_You want to know the real reason I tried to kill myself? The reason why everything in my head ended? I am responsible for the deaths of Molly, Arthur, Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred, George, Ginny… And only partially for Ron's. I know you could care less about this family, Severus, but they were all I had left and they were my best friends._

Snape looked up from the letter, feeling a place on the paper that was bubbled up, as if a tear had fallen there and wet the parchment. Why on earth would she assume responsibility for the Weasley's deaths? It was preposterous. He read on.

_We'd heard a rumor that was not yet confirmed by our informant amongst the Death Eaters—you. But we didn't have time to wait for confirmation; we had to move immediately. The rumor was this: Voldemort had discovered how important the Weasleys were to Harry (of course, I'm sure he'd known this for years) and was now planning to kill them to get to Harry. Furthermore, he'd heard bits and pieces of our latest plot to bring him down. Unfortunately, one of the parts Voldemort found out about was the Weasleys' role. They were in danger._

_Now, we plotted and recycled several plans to stop Voldemort before settling on the Aconite Attack, as the _Prophet_ has named it. One of these plans included sending the eight remaining members of the Weasley clan to different locations. The family was pretty torn apart after Ron's death and they volunteered for anything that would take their minds off what had happened to him. I didn't feel I could turn down anything they asked for, and nor did the rest of the Order. When we crafted a plan needing eight people, the Weasleys jumped in almost immediately._

_The locations were places where we had found a Horcrux, where we suspected there was one, or where we'd found a fake one. We had eight such locations at the time; one for each Weasley, fittingly. While we prepared to send the Weasleys, we found out that Voldemort was going to attack them, for he'd discovered parts of our new plot. Our intelligence told us that he didn't know where we were sending each Weasley, just that they were leaving the safety of Order headquarters and venturing out alone—all the better to kill them off, one by one, and all the better to get to Harry._

_We needed a new plan of action immediately; we could not afford to lose the Weasleys, so we couldn't move forward on our plot. _

_The Weasley family had mostly abandoned their home to reside at the better protected Order headquarters after Ron's death. For safety, among other reasons, we moved the headquarters often, and at this time were in between locations, meaning there was no truly safe place to send the Weasleys, as there was not yet a new, secure Order headquarters. I assumed that no one would expect them to be at the Burrow, and definitely not all together at one time. How wrong I was._

_First we had to determine if the Burrow was safe at all. We sent out a 24-hour flying squad on brooms above the house, watching for any suspicious activity. While we anxiously waited, worried what might happen if we didn't get either the Burrow or the new headquarters ready in time to protect the Weasleys, the squad watched for one week, and saw nothing. Then we sent a group of decoy "Weasleys"—Polyjuiced Order members, ready to defend themselves. No one attacked the decoys; we determined from this that no one was watching the house, waiting for the off chance the Weasleys might arrive.._

_We sent the Weasleys to the Burrow on a Saturday afternoon with a group of twelve Order members, as well as a rear guard and advance guard. _

_The advance guard prepped the Burrow, installing all the security measures we would place on an Order headquarters, and Tonks was the secret keeper. We were so practiced at installing security on hundreds of new Order headquarters that we had it down to an art: it took no more than two hours. We let three hours pass, thought it would be enough, and we sent the Weasleys on with their personal guard. It was my decision to do so. _

_Harry and I were part of the rear guard, following invisibly behind the family on broomsticks to make sure no one snuck up behind; no one did. But when we arrived at the Weasley's home…_

_Well, you'll have heard of the Battle for the Burrow, Severus. _

_Nearly a hundred Death Eaters had hidden themselves in a small lean-to near the Weasleys' home, and protected their shack with what we assume must have been the Fidelius Charm. We can also only assume they arrived there before we started surveying the Burrow, and that they waited until they saw the Weasleys arrive to attack. They might even have attacked the advance guard; we don't know. Harry and I were the only ones to make it out alive._

_All eight of the remaining Weasleys perished in the fight, trying to defend themselves and their home. Harry and I were devastated, though me most of all, for it was I who had sent them to their deaths. My grief was unbearable; I almost killed myself then and there, but I knew that people were depending on me, and I'm never one to let others down._

_But when the war ended, I had nothing to think about but the Weasleys. My mind constantly conjured up pictures of my worst mistake, my worst memory. I dwelled night and day on images of their broken bodies, their faces frozen in death. I read and reread the _Prophet_ article written about the battle so many times that it was tearstained and ripped in all four corners. And I was haunted constantly by my mental picture of the happy Weasley family I had known as a child, the Weasley family before Voldemort's Second War. _

_I was heartbroken and desperate… You know what came next. I'm only thankful that my life was saved, even if I have to live it without my loved ones. Memories of them are what make me who I am, no matter what those memories once led me to do. _

_Severus, what I'm trying to say is that you can't wander around in the past and forget to come home. It does not do to dwell on death and forget to live. I need you, and I think you need me. We can help each other. Your memories are part of you, they won't go away, so embrace them once and then put them aside. Don't let the past affect your future._

_I know, I know. I'm preaching platitudes. But sometimes we need to hear things like that. Sometimes we need to talk about them, too._

_Talk to me. Don't push me away._

_--H. Granger_

She had made him cry. He wanted to hate her for it—crying made him feel like a fool and Severus Snape was anything but a fool—but instead he was bizarrely happy to have someone who cared enough about him to talk sense into him. Severus wiped his face with his bed sheet and willed himself to do as she suggested, to embrace his memories but not allow them to control him. Part of him wanted to wallow in his bed for a few more days until he'd thought so much about his Death Eater days that he couldn't think anymore. But another part wanted to get on with life, to talk to Hermione and listen to her, to go to trial and be acquitted, to finally stop being a Death Eater forever.

Then he wondered… Did he have a friend in Miss Granger?

He hadn't had friends in years. And now, when he wasn't even trying to make any, he had found one. How strange.

* * *

Severus rolled down the hall to Hermione's room, where he knocked softly on the closed door, ignoring the looks of the Healers and mediwitches who were standing around, as if guarding. 

Hearing the knock and hoping it was Snape, Hermione got up from her seat by the pretend window and opened the door. She tilted her head to the side as an invitation for him to come in, and he obliged.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, before Snape began to speak.

"Miss Granger—Hermione…" His voice drifted off.

"Got my letter, did you?" Hermione prompted.

"I did," he said, bowing his head in acknowledgement. "I… Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"I'm sorry about what you went through."

"Thank you," she said slowly. "I'm sorry about what you've gone through too, but you know—"

"But nothing, Hermione. What I went through was different and much more painful now than what you went through."

"Why would you say that?" said Hermione, controlling her anger, but just barely.

"You went through it all while on the side of _light_; I was a _dark_, bad man and now I'm trying to deal with remembering my actions," Snape said.

"Dark and light don't matter!" Hermione snapped suddenly, forcefully. She shed her cool demeanor. "Dark is the same as light, don't you see? The only difference between light and dark is that when it's dark, you can't see things as well, the edges are a little blurred, the shadows are a little longer, but all in all, everything's still in the same position it was before the sun went down. You walk into a darkened room, it's all in the same place as in the same room with the lights on, just harder to see. Same idea with humans—you walk into a dark man's heart, you'll see the same pain and hardship and pleasure and happiness as you've got in a good man's heart. Only difference is the good man dealt with his sadness better, accepted his happiness quicker—he saw the light."

Snape had nothing to say.

"Look," Hermione continued. "Believe what you want. If you want to wallow around in the fact that you did bad things, be my guest. But do it in your own time. If you want me to help you stay clear of Azkaban, you've got to let me in."

Silence again.

"And… I'm sorry I brought up the death eater letters," she said hesitantly. "I'm sure that's what triggered your memories. Thinking about the letters reminded you of the time."

"It's… not really your fault," he replied, finally saying something. "I have a slightly difficult time dealing with my past."

"Trust me, I understand. That's why we can help each other. I don't want to equate what you went through with what I went through or vice versa… I just want to be friends."

_Friends_.

* * *

"Excuse me," said a man, poking his head around the door a few minutes later. Hermione looked up in surprise. 

"This is a private hospital room—" she began.

"I know, I'm sorry. But I'm from the Ministry, and I'm looking for Severus Snape. Someone told me I'd find him here."

"I'm Severus Snape," said Snape. Hermione nodded in agreement.

"Could I see you outside?" the man asked, pushing the door open wider.

Snape rolled in his wheelchair out into the hallway.

"Sorry about the intrusion," the man said before following Snape out and shutting the door to Hermione's room tightly behind him.


	5. How Long

**A/N**: There's a new, and hopefully improved, Chapter 4 up. I expanded the story of what happened to the Weasleys, thanks to a suggestion from a reviewer, which I really appreciate. I also edited Chapter 3 a little bit, but the only new thing there is that the death eater letters were not published in the Prophet until _after_ Voldemort's death. Once I finish this, I'll look for a beta, and then things will probably change all over again ;) But if you have any thoughts, please feel free to let me know! Thanks for reading; hope you're enjoying :)

**Chapter Five – How Long?**

_I can't believe the news today  
Oh, I can't close my eyes and make it go away  
How long… How long must we sing this song?  
How long? How long?  
Cause tonight, we can be as one  
Tonight…_  
Sunday, Bloody Sunday – U2

When Snape came back in, he opened the door himself and shut it softly, working deftly around the hindrance that was his wheelchair. Hermione looked up and made eye contact as he wheeled himself closer to her; something was wrong, she could tell.

"That fool of a man barely knew what he came here to say," Snape spat. Hermione waited patiently for him to continue, and he eventually did so. "My trial's been set."

"When is it?"

"Five weeks, nine o'clock."

Hermione frowned. "That soon? They've given up on your legs healing already?"

"So it seems. It's actually been a fairly long time, much longer of a reprieve than they should have given to a headmaster-murdering Death Eater."

"Still, I thought we would be dealing with months to work this out, not mere weeks." She sighed, then said, "Well, no matter. I'll be ready. Let's just go over some preliminary things, and then I need to do some research. Best to start as soon as possible since we're on a time limit now."

Snape nodded. "Do you have any sort of plan of action yet?"

"I was thinking I would first go to Hogwarts to talk to Dumbledore's portrait. He might have some insight, maybe some clues to what happened that night that the Wizengamot might listen to, because obviously they won't hear a word you say. Then I'll look up other murder trials, and you can help with that. We'll just to try find some case law, see if there have been any similar trials where the suspect got off. And later, probably next week sometime if we have to get all this done first, we'll work on what I should say when I testify about the death eater letters."

"You seem like you know what you're doing," Severus commented, seeming surprised.

"Well, that's because I've been to _plenty_ of war trials. I'm usually testifying for the prosecution, but I understand enough about defence, I think. That reminds me… Do you perchance have any character witnesses?"

Snape laughed hollowly. "I'm assuming you mean people who will say _good_ things about me?" Hermione nodded. "In that case, no. Plenty of people willing to describe the snarky, terror-of-Hogwarts Potions master, though," he said dryly.

"Yeah, that won't be too helpful." Hermione grinned despite herself.

They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, Hermione considering the trial, and Snape considering Hermione.

"You're different than the girl I taught at Hogwarts those years ago."

"I've been through a lot since then. So have you. I expect your perceptions have changed."

"At least my perceptions of you have."

Silence again, but this time Hermione felt awkward. She stared at her hands. Hearing a familiar sort of sound, she looked up—Snape was rolling his wheelchair slowly, coming closer to her where she sat on the window seat. He stopped just in front of her, a little to the left, and reached over to put his hands on top of hers. He held them there, watching her.

She closed her eyes, almost forgetting to breathe. Seconds later when he placed his lips softly, chastely upon hers, she leaned into him and returned his kiss.

"Hermione…" he said, breaking their contact. She flickered her eyes open and stared straight at him. He didn't move away from her, and she made no sign that she wanted him to.

Still at close range, he looked back at her, holding her eyes with a steady gaze, and she could tell this was going to be another moment of Snape's uncharacteristic honesty. The pain he'd gone through so recently, and the paralysis most likely, had affected him in some way that still unsettled Hermione. She'd come to expect a certain persona from Snape—but now, at every turn he was confusing her.

"Too soon?"

"Maybe," she whispered. "I don't know."

"There's something else…"

"Yes?"

Another long silence followed, in which Hermione and Severus alternated between making eye contact and turning their gazes embarrassedly away.

"I just wanted to thank you," he said finally.

Hermione didn't know quite how to reply.

* * *

"Professor McGonagall," Hermione said politely. She was sitting at the desk in the Headmistress's office at Hogwarts, awkwardly perched on the edge of her seat and anxious to try talking to Dumbledore's portrait. First she had to get through Minerva McGonagall, and that task was proving to be difficult. 

"Miss Granger," McGonagall replied, voice low and slightly cold. Hermione almost wanted to shiver.

"Thank you for meeting with me," she began. "I'm really here just to see if you might be willing to let me talk to Professor Dumbledore."

Professor McGonagall's eyes narrowed slightly, as if she were unhappy with the reason for Hermione's visit. "Why would you need to do something like that?"

"I'm… preparing a defence for someone, and I think hearing from Dumbledore might point me in the right direction."

"Who might that someone be?"

"I don't think you want me to bring that up, Professor," Hermione said quietly. She had a suspicion that she knew the reason McGonagall was acting so distant.

"Ah, yes. If you won't, then I shall bring it up: I've heard you've become close to Severus Snape lately," McGonagall commented softly. "Keeping him out of Azkaban now, are you?"

"Professor, I do want to apologize for not turning to you," Hermione said quickly. "You know, before, when I was having trouble… I know you would have supported me and helped me—but I just couldn't come back to Hogwarts. Not after… Not after…" Hermione wasn't sure she could say it.

"After Mr. Weasley's death."

Hermione swallowed. "Yes… It's hard enough to be back here now, but if I had tried before…"

"So you're able to come here for Severus' sake, but not for your own?"

"Professor, it's not like that. It's not, _not_ that I didn't want to come, that I didn't want to see you. I'm happy to be with you now—or I would be if you would—" She bit her tongue before she said something she might regret.

McGonagall's eyes softened immediately. She reached her hands across the desk to take Hermione's. "I'm sorry, Miss Granger. I shouldn't be so selfish. I expected you to turn to me, but when instead you chose to take your own life… I felt that I had done something wrong. It is an immense surprise to see you here today."

"I'm sorry," Hermione whispered.

"Let's just move on, shall we?" When Hermione nodded in relief, she continued, "Tell me. Why are you defending Severus?"

"Mostly because it's giving me something to do. Part of the reason I tried to… do what I did was because I felt so empty without the Order to worry about."

"Hmm. But it seems like such a waste of time. Do you even have any proof?"

"A little." Hermione grinned. "He wrote them."

McGonagall's eyes widened; she had been one who suspected along with Hermione that Snape had written the death eater letters. "You're sure?"

"Very. He admitted it… and that made him weirdly sad."

"You don't suspect that he was lying, at all?"

"No… I suppose I have reason to believe he would admit it, just to get me on his side…" Hermione frowned. "You know, I should have checked his story more fully. Why did I just take his word for it?"

"Perhaps you were blinded by something, your need to work again, perhaps," McGonagall said. "It's not too late to fix it, in any case."

"I still should have been more careful. Where is my head lately?"

McGonagall didn't answer. Instead she stood up and walked around her desk. "I'll leave you alone to talk to Albus now," she said. "I don't think you'll get very far with him, I'll be honest, but please try. And… Hermione, keep in mind that you can always come to work at Hogwarts, once you're better able to deal with the way in which Mr Weasley died."

"Thank you," Hermione said, truly touched. She smiled and stood up too, bringing her professor into an embrace. They parted a few seconds later, both smiling.

"Say goodbye before you leave, will you? I'll be in the staff room." With that, McGonagall left her office, closing the door behind her.

"All right, Professor Dumbledore. Where are you?" Hermione said, mostly to herself. She glanced around her at the walls, looking at each of the portraits. The view out the window caught her eye suddenly; she could see a Quidditch team practicing on the pitch, the sun bright and the grass green, and she was seized with a feeling of intense sadness—maybe it was miserable regret for what she'd missed as a student; maybe it was heartbreaking reminiscence of what she had had.

Her days at Hogwarts had never been easy, and they'd been over far too soon… She had sacrificed her school days to make the wizarding world safe for these new students, these carefree students able to play Quidditch on a Saturday morning. Certainly she shouldn't regret leaving school to do something so important.

But she did; she wished desperately that she was still a twelve-year-old girl, boarding the Hogwarts Express for the first time, anxious to learn what being a witch truly meant.

Oh, and how she had learned just that.

Suddenly she thought she knew exactly how Severus must have felt when he'd locked himself up, refused to see her, when he was drowning in his memories.

She would take her own advice; she had to. Memories are important, but they're for the past.

"Professor Dumbledore!" she said loudly, and saw a portrait near the back of the room stir suddenly from sleep. She walked closer until she was standing just in front of the man who had been her headmaster.

"Hermione Granger?" asked Dumbledore. "How nice to see you."

"And you," she said, smiling.

"You're doing well, I hope? You seem well."

"I'm well, Professor," she acknowledged. "You know, I came here to see you."

"Did you now?" asked Dumbledore, his face taking on a slight look of puzzlement.

"I wanted to ask you about… about the night you died, sir."

"You're trying to save Severus, I've heard."

"That's right. If you could just tell me what happened, truly…"

Dumbledore smiled broadly. "I'm sure you've deduced that I asked Severus to kill me."

"I suspected, but I wasn't sure and of course I couldn't just take Severus' word for it..."

"Well, it's true. We shared a moment of Legilimency up on that tower. I told him how weak I was, and asked him to kill me, at great personal risk to himself, for it meant he could never return to the Order, or he would have to find his own way to do so. No one would ever trust him again. But Severus would never disobey me, though I saw it pained him. His face was terribly twisted and I could feel his anger, but then he cast the spell…"

Hermione didn't speak for a few minutes. She was afraid if she did, "speaking" might end up as yelling; she felt a surge of anger at Dumbledore for being so uncaring towards Severus.

"So you used the fact that he would never disobey you to… to do what, exactly?"

"Oh, my dear, I wasn't using him, if that's what you think. I had to die, it was time, and if I died then we could save Draco Malfoy, an innocent child."

"Hah!"

"What was that?"

"Nothing, Professor. Draco just wasn't that innocent. Listen, is there any way I could convince you to say all that before the Wizengamot?"

"I'm afraid I can't be much help in that regard, my dear," Dumbledore said sadly, shaking his head. "The Wizengamot, as much as they respected me, will never believe that you haven't enchanted my portrait to make me speak what you want. They'll never believe that I'm speaking of my own accord; portraits are, unfortunately, very easy to enchant."

"So what do you suggest I do?" She barely restrained herself from adding, "If you care at all?"

"I hear that you're quite the influence these days; just say all that yourself."

"I don't think that will work as well as you think. People hate him… and their hate for him far supersedes their love of me."

"You'll figure something out, Miss Granger. You're a brilliant witch, and Severus is counting on you. I think I'd like to go back to my nap, now, if you don't mind."

"Sure, sure. Sorry for bothering you," Hermione said. She left the room quickly, feeling angry and sad, but mostly disappointed in the one man she'd thought would help her.

After she left, a few of the other portraits pretended to wake up from their pretend sleep.

Phineas Nigellus, looking a little upset, told Dumbledore, "You're being a fool. She just wanted your advice; she trusted you at one point in her life."

"She's an adult, and she has to figure out how to do things by herself," Dumbledore retorted. "Severus knew I was going to leave him on his own one day, to deal with the consequences of all we did. She just doesn't understand that yet."

"You won't help them at all?"

"No. That is no longer my way."

* * *

"Well, Dumbledore was useless," Hermione said, walking into Severus' hospital room. She took a seat in an armchair that she moved next to Severus' bed, where he lay reading from a couple dozen wizarding law books and history books about murder trials. Hermione had given them to him. 

"Always has been, if you want my opinion," he said, without looking up from his current book, _Wizengamot Murder Trials: Who got off and How_.

"Yes, well, I didn't know that," she replied huffily, grabbing a book--_Trials of Voldemort's First War_--and starting to read, ignoring Severus as fully as he was ignoring her.


End file.
